Pas de Deux
by FarAnya
Summary: Michael and Nikita have good dinners - alone - but neither of them have sweet dreams afterwards.


var yviContents='http://us.toto.geo.yahoo.com/toto?s=76001089yviR='us';yfiEA(0); Pas de Deux

Pas de Deux 

_written by _[Anya][1]

Author's note: This is pure fantasy. It is not set in any particular time frame, simply sometime after the opening arc of the second season. For those unfamiliar with the term _pas de deux_ it is a series of solo dances performed alternately by a male and then by a female dancer. The series ends in a duet between the two.  
Disclaimer: As usual, Nikita, Michael and the rest of the LFN regulars are property of LFN Productions and no copyright infringement is intended. I thank their creators for allowing me to take them off the shelf and play with them awhile. I promise I'll put them back, no worse for wear, when I'm finished.

It had been a long day. Michael was actually looking forward to going home. The past few weeks had been tortuous. He couldn't remember the last time he'd made it home before midnight -- or not being in his office long before the sun came up. But tonight... there was nothing urgent on the boards... all his reports were complete... he had no reason to stay late.

As he locked down his files and turned on the security program, he planned his evening. He'd found an old French cookbook the last time he'd been in Chartres and couldn't wait to try one or two of the tempting dishes. Of course, it would be even better if he were having _company_ for dinner... specific company, that is. Well, it was too late now. He wasn't even sure if she was still in Section. He'd have to test the recipes first and invite Nikita later. He'd discovered that, for all her claims to prefer "fruit loops," she really enjoyed gourmet cooking.

Savoring thoughts of delicious food... and Nikita... Michael walked down the hall toward the exit. His measured stride carried him further away from Section and further into his idyll... dinner in front of the fire, a fine old cognac, some soft music and something to read... something as far removed from his everyday existence as possible. No spy thriller... no mystery... no science fiction. Poetry he decided_. Now that would be different._

He emerged into the open and paused, reveling in the fresh air. He delighted in the deepening colors of the sunset. The sky to the west was on fire and it set his pulse racing. The brilliant golds and reds reminded him of some of the bizarre outfits Nikita occasionally wore. Even the deep blues and purples stirred memories of her.

Stopping at the open-air market to purchase fresh vegetables and other ingredients he might need for dinner, Michael let his sybaritic side take control, his French heritage surging through his soul. It was something he was rarely able to indulge. Inhaling the freshness of the herbs and spices, thoughts of Nikita assailed Michael again as he mentally planned the menu.

_Asperges sauce Maltaise_... _Tian Provençal_..._ Flétan sauce Vierge_..._ Salade de Mesclun_..._ avec_..._ sorbet au cassis pour dessert_... _oui_... _et le vin. Merveilleux. _[Asparagus with orange sauce, zucchini and tomato bake, halibut with tomato vinaigrette, a mixed green salad, with black currant sorbet for dessert... yes... and the wine. Marvelous.] 

  
------------------------------------------------

  
She was beat! She'd lost count of the missions she'd completed in the last month. Operations must truly be taking his frustrations out on her. Frustrations about what, she had no clue. But it was obvious whenever he looked at her that something was eating him! It couldn't be that she was performing above Sections standards, could it? She was... and Operations and Madeline both knew it. _No, what's probably sticking in his throat is that I'm not pushing up daisies for real in Row 8, Plot 30!_ she decided.

She finished uploading her panel and leaned back in her chair, extending her arms over her head. She stretched until she felt her rib cage reach its limit. She shoved her chair gracelessly away from the desk and languidly pulled herself up to her full height, stretching up first then bending over 'til her palms press flat against the floor.

Birkoff watched from Comm while she twisted her long form this way and that. He winced as she continued the exercise, putting her hands around her ankles and pressing her face to her knees. He was amazed at her lissome grace... no jerks... no apparent strain. He glanced over toward Walter's station and caught Walter gaping at Nikita. After a few minutes of pure and unadulterated lust... both for her body and her flexibility... Walter finally noticed Birkoff smirking at him. They grinned at each other and then they both turned to continue worshiping at their own private shrine of beauty.

Unaware of the homage her two friends were paying her, Nikita continued loosening every taut muscle. When she finished, she straightened up and casually turned around to find Walter and Birkoff's faces wreathed in admiring grins! She glanced quickly up to Operations' watchpost... thankfully it was dark. She bowed gracefully as they applauded. 

"Hey, Sugar," Walter drawled as he sauntered over, projecting his usual image of optimism, his fingertips tucked into the pockets of his faded jeans. "Why don't you come over to my place tonight and show me how to do some of those moves?" Then with a leer that lit his face, he continued, "Then I'll show you some of mine!!"

Nikita chuckled delightfully, "Walter, you know I can't." She let innuendo color her husky voice, "You wouldn't be able to move in the morning!"

Walter was nonplussed only for a moment, then he quipped, "Yeah, but it would hurt _so good!_" 

Birkoff barely managed to suppress his laughter! When he saw her turn toward him he was glad he'd kept his mouth shut. Hoping she was going to reward him for his 'virtue,' he lifted his smiling countenance to accept her benediction. 

She leaned over and bussed him lightly on the cheek and then whispered in his ear, "Where's Michael?"

His face fell... that wasn't exactly what he had been hoping for. He heard Walter stifle a guffaw. _But,_ he reminded himself, _she did kiss me_..._ kinda_...

Still, he let his smile linger as he said, "He left over an hour ago. I think he's taking some downtime tonight. Nothing's happening around here, so he cut out. If you're smart, you'll do the same."

"Too right," she replied with fervor. She knew from past experiences how events could escalate in a matter of hours. After a moment more of deliberation, she decided to pack it in for the night. If anyone wanted her, they had her number. "In that case, I'm outta here!" she said as she moved out of Comm. She waved goodbye over her shoulder to Birkoff and blew Walter a kiss as she strode leisurely down the hall.

It was completely dark outside when she emerged. She stopped for a moment and gazed at the darkening sky; the stars were beginning to appear. She recognized Orion the hunter... and could even locate the Big Dipper. 

She stretched once more as she inhaled the crisp evening air. It was on nights like this that she wished she had a fireplace. This would have been a perfect night for curling up in front of a fire with a glass of wine and a book of love poems. Or better still... a fireplace, a glass of wine, a book of love poems and Michael! _Damn!_

  
------------------------------------------------

  
Michael arrived at his apartment, his thoughts an intoxicating blend of Nikita and French cuisine. On his way home from the market he'd decided to scale down the menu for himself... he'd just try the asparagus and halibut tonight. He put the rest of his purchases away, set water on to simmer in the bottom of the double boiler, and moved into his bedroom to change.

Stripping off his ubiquitous black turtleneck shirt, he opened a drawer in the antique armoire and pulled out a soft, deep sky-blue, ramie sweater. He'd purchased it some time during that hellish six months when he had begun to believe Nikita was dead. As he pulled the sweater over his head, his thoughts drifted back, remembering vividly the despair he had felt... the hopefulness spiraling into hopelessness. 

  
***

  
Madeline had practically chased him out of Section that day. He hadn't been able to concentrate on anything and she knew why. Rather, she _thought_ she knew. She had fussed over him like a mother hen with only one chick. She'd even gone so far as to tell him that Operations was beginning to lose confidence in Michael's ability to function at the Class Five level and that if Michael couldn't come to terms with Nikita's death, then he'd better be prepared to start _taking_ orders during missions instead of _giving_ them.

Michael had wandered the streets that afternoon, trying to see the world as he imagined Nikita must have seen it. He had almost passed the small shop before his mind recognized the color of the sweater casually draped across the mannequin's form. Turning back to the display, he was overwhelmed by its incredible color... a blue... not electric, not cobalt, not even royal blue. As he stood there staring at it, a long-legged, long-haired blonde passed behind him, sunglasses perched atop her head. He caught her reflection in the window... juxtaposed over the sweater for a split second. In that instant he knew the _precise_ color of the sweater... it exactly matched... Nikita's eyes! Without hesitating, he had entered the shop and purchased it.

  
***

  
Dressed in the sweater and jeans, Michael returned to the kitchen and prepared the halibut steak and the asparagus. With the skill of a practiced chef, he assembled all the necessary utensils and ingredients. He employed the same, single-minded concentration to the preparation of his supper that he applied to mission preparations. 

While the fish was cooking, he laid a fire in the grate and lit it. Moving back into the kitchen, he warmed a plate for the halibut, and another for the asparagus. As soon as everything was ready, he poured a glass of wine and carried it all on a tray to the low table between the fireplace and the sofa. He pressed the remote of his stereo and soft music drifted across the room from the hidden speakers. A soulful piano and bass merged to form a tender atmosphere that bordered on the sensual. 

  
------------------------------------------------

  
Nikita stopped at her favorite Chinese restaurant on her way home. She loved this particular place as much for the food as for the fact that you could still get take out in the little square paper boxes! None of those pre-formed Styrofoam plates that leaked thank god. She ordered two of her favorite entrées... _Beggar's Chicken_ and _Ginger Beef_... fried rice, a cup of seaweed soup, egg rolls and chopsticks to go. 

She managed to get everything home without spilling a drop of soup or losing an egg roll to the neighborhood cats. As she set the various containers on the kitchen counter, she glanced at her answering machine. No blinking lights. Not that she'd expected Michael to call, but it would have been nice. She moved up the stairs to her bedroom and quickly changed into a loose silk sleep shirt. She pinned her hair up and grabbed her terry robe as she headed back downstairs.

Reentering the kitchen, she poured a glass of white wine to accompany her dinner and moved everything over to the low table between her sofa and the French doors to the balcony. She opened the doors and picked up the remote control to her stereo as she passed by. The light evening breeze stirred the gauzy curtains only slightly. 

She positioned ranks of assorted candles on the low table across the room to create a "fireplace". Then she moved serenely through the room lighting other candles scattered about. Finally she programmed several hours of soft music and sat on the floor to enjoy her meal. The only thing missing was a companion... Michael.

  
------------------------------------------------

  
He let his mind roam as he cleared away the debris of his dinner. Once the kitchen was in order, he poured a generous measure of cognac into a snifter. Dimming most of the lights, he moved back to the fireplace, pausing at his bookshelves to select his after-dinner reading. What should it be...Dante's **Inferno**? no, totally wrong mood... The **Odyssey**... don't think so... Ah... an anthology. That way he'd be able to read whatever piqued his interest.

Michael settled on the floor in front of the fireplace, using the cushions from the sofa to cradle his head and shoulders. His selections, as he thumbed through the small, well-worn volume, were catholic. He read, among others, Robert Graves' **_Symptoms of Love_**, several of Shakespeare's sonnets, Izumi Shikibu's **_Come Quickly_**, Sylvia Plath's **_The Rival_**, Pablo Neruda's **_In My Sky at Twilight_**, Arthur Gorges' **_Her Face_**, Byron's **_She Walks in Beauty_**, Christina Rossetti's **_I Loved You First_**, Stéphane Mallarmé's **_Another Fan_**, John Donne's **_The Good Morrow_**, Boris Pasternak's **_Wild Vines_**, Bhartrhari's **_In Former Days_**, and Shelley's **_I Arise from Dreams of Thee_**.****

The combined warmth of the fire and the brandy finished the work the meal and the music had begun. He'd read only a dozen or so works when he drifted off to sleep. And in his sleep, Michael dreamed... 

  
~~~

_  
He was walking along the streets, much like he'd done the day he'd bought the sweater. He passed people he thought looked familiar_..._ but didn't recognize anyone. No one spoke to him. _

_Suddenly a small child ran up to him, her arms outstretched, clearly expecting him to pick her up. Without thinking, Michael lifted the child into his arms, swung her high into the air and then gave her a gentle hug. She squealed with delight as she wrapped her tiny arms around his neck. _

_She was about three years old he decided, blond curls peeking out from under her black woolen toboggan. She was dressed entirely in black_..._ an unusual color for such a small child, but it was very becoming on her, contrasting as it did with her fair hair and complexion._

_He leaned back from her to get a good look at her face. As he did, he fell_..._ literally and figuratively. Literally, he inadvertently stepped off the curb and barely managed to maintain his balance with the precious bundle in his arms. And figuratively_..._ he fell into her eyes. There was no other way to describe it. She had the most extraordinary sky-blue eyes._

_He glanced around to find her mother but the streets were now inexplicably empty. The child struggled in his arms and he carefully set her on her feet, making sure he had a firm grasp of her tiny hand. He knew he couldn't afford to lose this child_..._ and that he didn't want to consider the consequences if he did. _

_She toddled along beside him for a while, chattering nonsense, much to his delight. And his answers to her were just as meaningless. Suddenly, something caught her eye. She gave a quick tug and her hand slipped from his. Immediately she was gone, swallowed up by the masses that had mysteriously reappeared. _

_The people milled around him, ignoring him while he searched frantically for the child. He could hear her crying but he couldn't locate the sound. He darted into shops, hoping to catch a glimpse of the black-capped moppet. But he couldn't find her. He was desolate, shaken to the center of his being by his loss. He wanted to call for her but he realized he didn't know her name. It might be "Josephine," but he really didn't think so_..._ it didn't suit her._

_He again wandered the streets, now desperate and inconsolable. Tears streamed down his face unchecked. He didn't care who saw them_..._ these people didn't matter. The only one he truly cared about was the child. In the short time she'd spent with him (or had it been a lifetime?), she had captured his heart. He had a problem though. He hadn't been allowed to tell her how he felt about her. Every time he had tried, something unseen had prevented him. He knew he should have tried harder_..._ somehow he should have broken the barrier_..._ and it grieved him that he hadn't._

_He went through the motions of living_..._ eating, drinking, talking, sleeping. It was inconsequential. He lived only for the hours he could walk the streets, searching for her. How long had it been since she had escaped from him? Had it been minutes_..._ or eons? He wandered_..._ alone and horribly lonely. _

_Suddenly, he was running. Someone was chasing him, trying to kill him. He wondered why he was trying so hard to stay alive. There was nothing to live for_..._ no one to comfort him at the end of the day. But he ran anyway. Whoever was chasing him was gaining. He darted into an alley, hoping to shake the pursuers loose. It didn't work. He managed to elude one set of outstretched hands grasping for him, but there were others. He knew he wouldn't be able to evade them all._

_His steps were faltering, when suddenly the child stepped out of a doorway, into the path of his enemies. They tripped themselves trying to avoid her, and went sprawling on the pavement. He quickly turned and snatched her from the pavement before they could be parted again. He didn't want her to be frightened, but he was terrified his attackers would discover who had come between them and their prey. _

_With the child clutched to his heart, he ran with renewed energy until he was certain they were not being followed. Then he slipped into an open door and closed it quickly behind him. She slid from his arms, not struggling to be free this time, but somehow knowing he needed time to regain his strength. _

_She waited patiently while he gasped for breath, stroking his cheek, holding one of his big hands in both her tiny ones. While she waited she watched his face, seeming to memorize every feature. He didn't realize that she was mimicking him; for just as she looked at him, he examined her, engraving her image on his brain. He gazed down at their joined hands, rubbing his thumb over her hand, comparing and contrasting their textures and colors. When he looked into her eyes, the world as he knew it_..._ disappeared._

_The barriers that had prevented him from speaking before were suddenly gone. He could tell her anything. With tenderness he hadn't realized he still possessed, he gathered her into his arms, pressing one gentle kiss to her cheek and one to her forehead. Then he said_...

_I love you, Nikita._

  
------------------------------------------------

  
Her fortune cookie had been enigmatic... _You will find in your dreams that which will make you whole._ She struggled over its meaning for only a few minutes before giving up. She'd learned years ago never to try to understand Oriental philosophy... just accept it.

The soporific combination of the food, wine, music and candlelight were luring Nikita toward sleep. She rose sluggishly and picked up the remains of her meal, stowing the leftovers in the refrigerator. She poured another glass of wine and moved back into the living room, extinguishing most of the candles on her way across to the French doors. She left her "fireplace" lit.

The room had cooled somewhat while she had eaten and Nikita drew her robe around her as she stepped out onto the balcony. Gazing again at the stars, she thought of Michael. What would it be like to be able to sleep every night in his arms? To wake up each morning wrapped in his embrace? _Best **not** go there, _she thought. She'd dreamed about that often enough during the six months she'd been out of Section.

Pensively she reached up to pull the pins from her hair, letting it fall in a flaxen halo about her face. As she moved back into her apartment, she closed the door to the balcony and pulled a slim volume of poetry from the pocket of her robe. She crossed the room as she began to thumb through it.

  
***

  
When Nikita had completed her two years of intensive training, Madeline had suggested she audit some literature courses at the local college to, as Madeline had bluntly put it, "fill in some of the gaps in your education." Never having considered herself much of a scholar, Nikita had grudgingly enrolled and discovered, much to her surprise and chagrin, that she really enjoyed it; particularly the romantic poets of the 19th century. She'd made sure she got to class whenever she wasn't involved in a mission. 

  
***

  
She settled on the sofa, stretching out with just the light from the "fireplace" left to read by. She read several of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's **_Sonnets from the Portuguese_**, Matthew Arnold's **_Longing_**, Pasternak's **_Devotion is a Heavy Cross_**, William Carlos Williams' **_Love Song_**, and Emily Dickinson's **_Love is that Later Thing_**.

In the dim light, she succumbed to the combined effects of good food, good music, and sheer exhaustion. As she tumbled into sleep, she began to dream... 

  
~~~

_  
She was stranded. _

_She had been tossed from the slowly moving van like a bundle of newspapers. She watched, terrified, as it turned and sped away. Somehow, she had roused the ire of the gods and she was being punished by being separated from the only one who had ever cared for her. They were jealous of her devotion to him and his to her. So she was damned for eternity._

_She started walking down the highway following in the wake of the van. She knew that if she didn't get back, something priceless would be lost to her forever. _

_At first, while she walked, she gazed at the sky, trying to find her lodestar there among the myriad stars. But the effort was fruitless. He was not there_..._ and she gained nothing from the rest._

_Frightened, she lurched into a stumbling run. As she approached the city, she saw people on the streets. She peered into their blank faces hoping_..._ no_..._ praying_..._ to find someone who might know where he was. They just ignored her_..._ passing her by without care or compassion. She wandered for hours_..._ days_..._ years it seemed like. And the brighter lights of the city outshone the dimmer light of the stars. She was lost_...

_She crouched on a doorstep, crying hopelessly_..._ begging for someone to help her_..._ to care about her. She was confused and frightened that she would never find him. She needed to tell him something very important_..._ something vital. _

_As she sat there, frozen in her fear and pain, she realized that the gods had won. He was irrevocably lost to her. Without him there was no reason for loving_..._ or living._

_With that realization came resignation. She couldn't bear the misery and the loneliness, and the fever of her pain consumed her. She gave up. The gods had won their petty victory over her. They hadn't succeeded in breaking her devotion to him, only in thwarting her attempts to reach him. Well, let them gloat. She wouldn't hang around, listening to them congratulate each other. She'd end it_..._ once and for all. _

_She gazed into the sky one last time, her tears blinding her to the growing radiance of the stars. She drew a small vial from her pocket. She had no idea where it had come from, but she knew that once the dark liquid in it past her lips, her suffering would be over._

_She said a soft goodbye to the air around her, hoping by some chance that the breeze would carry her farewell to him. She prayed that the gods wouldn't seek retribution from him also. She prayed that, since she couldn't find him, he was beyond their reach as well. _

_As she lifted the vial to her lips, she heard a muted voice calling her name from a great distance. She paused, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. No, that wasn't his voice_..._ was it? It couldn't be. She raised the tiny flask again. _

_This time a hand reached out to stop her. The hand wasn't his, though. A petite light swirled around her, dragging her hand down. Desperately she tried to maintain her grip on the vial, but the light bore down ruthlessly, tipping the contents out onto the pavement. She closed her eyes and howled in frustration. _

_The light continued to spin around her, pulling her to her feet. Bathed in its brilliance, she could no longer see the buildings surrounding her. She seemed to float through the void that crossed eternity. With extreme tenderness, the light caressed her face and then departed. _

_She opened her eyes and discovered that she back was where her nightmare had started_..._ she was once again on the road where she'd been thrown from the van. Momentarily she panicked, sagging to her knees in the middle of the road. Raising her tear-stained face to the heavens, she breathed a prayer_..._ where are you? I need you so much_...

_Then, suddenly she sensed a presence behind her. She whirled to face the new danger! But it was no threat. **He** was standing there_..._ the starlight shining in his eyes! Her lodestar! _

_She tentatively lifted her hand to stroke his cheek. He leaned into the caress and then stole closer to wrap her in his warm embrace. She rested her head on his shoulder as he smoothed her hair. She held her breath, hoping the moment would last forever._

_Eventually she pulled away_..._ she had to tell him_..._ had to make him understand. She gazed, mesmerized, into his silver-green eyes. With great effort she willed her mouth to speak the words in her heart_...

_Michael, I need your love to make me whole. _

  
------------------------------------------------

  
At those four words, Michael came to with a start. He stretched, turning around to take in his surroundings. It was late. It must be almost midnight by the look of the deserted moonlit street around him. _STREET?? _

Immediately alert, he scanned the area trying to determine where he was and how he had gotten there. In his panic, he didn't recognize anything! No wait... that wasn't true. There was the coffee shop Nikita had taken him to after Simone died. That meant he was just across from... Nikita's apartment! _Mon dieu!!_

Stunned by the magnitude of what must have happened, Michael sat down hard on the curb facing Nikita's balcony, his legs unable to support him. This had never happened to him before... at least not that he was aware of. Not even when he'd believed Nikita was dead. He had dreamed of her often then. So often in fact, that many nights he'd been afraid to sleep at all.

The last thing he remembered was that he had been settling down to read in front of the fire. It had been about 9:00pm then. When had he gotten up? Had he been wandering around all this time? Had anyone seen him? spoken to him? What had he done? His mind cycled endlessly through the questions. 

Suddenly a light flashed on in Nikita's apartment, catching his eye. Something must have awakened her. He watched as she opened the door and moved to stand next to the balcony railing. As he watched her standing there, looking out over the city, his dream burst upon him like the memory of a loved one long forgotten. He knew it for what it was... an opportunity to change... to let her... at last... into his heart... and soul.

No matter what had happened between them in the past, surely she knew he cared for her, didn't she? Fear flooded his heart. What if he never told her how much she meant to him? What if he was killed on a mission without taking the opportunity to make her understand? What would happen to him if she were killed?

He was across the street before he had consciously made the decision to go to her. He only knew he had to take that chance. 

  
------------------------------------------------

  
She woke to a sense of relief... and longing. Nikita stood up slowly, letting the remnants of her dream ebb away. Her fear, too, was slowly releasing its hold on her heart. 

As she stood there the last of the candles in her "fireplace" guttered and she was left in the dark. Automatically, she reached for the switch of the small lamp on the table beside the sofa.

In its scant illuminate, Nikita made her way to the doors to the balcony again. She wanted to stare at the stars... wanted to find him again.

She wished, as she had on many occasions, that she knew where Michael lived. She wanted so much to go to him and explain to him why she needed him. She was afraid that something, someday would take him away from her irrevocably... it was the nature of the beast that they worked for that on any given mission, any given operative might die.

Nikita plunged her hands into the pockets of her robe, as she crossed the balcony to the railing. As she leaned against it the night breeze stirred the loose strands of her hair. In her heart, she called out to him. 

  
------------------------------------------------

  
He entered the lobby of the apartment building and silently climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. He stood for a moment outside her door gathering his courage. He could tell from the peephole that the light was still on in the apartment. Taking a deep breath, he knocked gently on her door. After a few minutes he knocked again... just in case she hadn't heard the first time.

The light dimmed in the peephole as she stepped up to see who it was. Michael moved back slightly so the light in the hall would fall directly on his face. He heard her muffled cry of "Michael!" through the door and then the bolt was turned, the chain removed, and the door flung open. 

Then he fell again... into her stunning eyes.

"Michael? What's wrong? I thought we were supposed to have some downtime. Did something happen? Why didn't you call?" Even as she spoke, she eagerly drew him inside and closed the door. Her voice had the raspy quality he loved to hear.

Quietly, Michael assured her, "Nothing's wrong... we're not being called in." He was getting drunk standing there looking at her... her hair loose and uncombed, her white terry robe belted carelessly around her waist. "I couldn't sleep," he started, trying to tear his eyes away. She looked at him curiously. "Actually, that's not true," he confessed. And before he could stop himself, he began telling her how he had spent his evening; about planning an unforgettable meal for her, reading, and falling asleep in front of the fire. Nikita was flattered and intrigued. 

Then he told her about the dream. Tears threatened to spill over her lashes as his dream unfolded. She knew without a doubt that what he was telling her was the truth. There was no prevarication in his eyes, no hesitation in his speech. 

As Michael neared the end of his narration, he turned again to look at her. "I need you to believe that what I am telling you is the truth. The last thing I remember... I was reading Shelley's poem **_I Arise from Dreams of Thee_**. It's always been a favorite of mine. It begins...

_"I arise from dreams of thee  
In the first sweet sleep of night,  
When the winds are breathing low,  
And the stars are shining bright.  
I arise from dreams of thee,  
And a spirit in my feet  
Has led me - who knows how? -  
To thy chamber-window, sweet!"_

"The next thing I knew, I was standing across the street looking up at your window." Michael's voice was hardly more than a whisper and she had to strain to hear him. "When I saw the light come on in here, I knew I had to come up," he said.

"I was dreaming, too," Nikita said. "I dreamed I'd been abandoned, separated from someone very important to me. I had given up hope of ever finding him, and was about to end it all, when I was rescued by a light he had sent to save me. I didn't find him... he found me just before I woke." She paused, and then added, as if to herself, so quietly he almost missed her words, "My fortune cookie tonight said _'You will find in your dreams that which will make you whole_.'" She raised her eyes and gazed tenderly into his. "I found you in my dreams, Michael," she said. "You make me whole."

The words came out as the barest sound, but they rang like joyous cathedral bells in his heart! Emboldened, he took a step closer to her, reaching with his hand to caress her cheek and forehead where he'd kissed her in his dream. She leaned into his touch. He picked up the thread of his dream where he had stopped.

"You saved me, Nikita. You protected me with your love when I couldn't protect myself. Without you, my life is meaningless," he declared quietly. "When I woke, I knew I had to tell you and make you believe."

"Believe what, Michael?" Nikita asked quietly when he paused.

Looking steadfastly into her incredible eyes, he said simply and earnestly... 

"I love you, Nikita."

The End

geovisit();

   [1]: mailto:MABACE@mail.saumag.edu



End file.
